Watcher in the South
by Infrared Kappa
Summary: Because Regulus was never the kind to thrust his hands into the night sky, never the kind to fumble for the stars. RAB drabbles.
1. Go and Catch a Falling Star

Go and Catch a Falling Star.

* * *

The sky opens above him, a glittering wasteland that unfolds and unfolds overhead and every time he blinks more constellations fall into his eyes, light as spring rain. He watches his own star for a few moments as it pulses blue and white, then raising his hand higher until the white expanse of his skin blocks out most of his night sky, he stares at it through the translucent tip of his nail. Regulus glows sweet and strong, the little prince who dances with the moon and with the planets and who, though far far away and never to be reached, burns - secretly - brighter than his brother.

The earth bound Regulus is twelve years old and the garden path uncomfortable beneath him but it's worth it for the evening silence which is full of communication: moonlight entangled in the arms of the leaves who whisper in her ears and the quiet noises of ants crossing, in steady lines, the bewitched undergrowth of the grass - united in pursuit of food or war or perhaps the heat of his palm - two spiders lie nestled there already. It is a better silence than the one at school. There no one will speak to him. The reasons are numerous, plausible even - the happy fact that he is a Slytherin naturally ostracizes him from the other three houses of the school and, even though they band together on occasion, scraping long nails along each other's back as they scrabble for audacity and for dreams, the other members of the House of Snakes are cruel and competitive and ignore him - his pale, useless little figure overshadowed and contaminated by the venomous golden brightness of his brother.

He pushes himself up finally, at about three in the morning according to the slow progress of the moon and rubs off the grass which has carved a map onto the backs of his legs and his arms and stretches, shivering pleasantly in the night breeze. Regulus loves the summer, it's when Sirius comes home and forgets about his 'bestial little friends' as Bellatrix calls them and instead manages to remember his _brother_. Last year he when he came home he had called Regulus _Cor Leonis_, partly to infuriate their mother but partly too to imagine that Regulus really would be in the Lion House, that he'd be another 'disgusting blood traitor' (Bellatrix has a veritable armoury of insults when is comes to the 'dog of the family') and that together with his friends, they'd all go and taunt the newly planted Whomping Willow and Regulus could use his odd, patchwork knowledge to discover forgotten spells which it would take their Slytherin victimes hours of sifting through the library to reverse.

The way Sirius's eyes flickered away from him though, as the hat rested moment after moment on his dark head, told him that mostly it had been for the hateful, despairing sake of their mother.

So now Sirius names him _Reg_ and yesterday he made him a crown out of a Hufflepuff tie which he stole as an excuse to be wandering the kitchen corridors at night (who would be mean to a poor Hufflepuff second year, lost, hungry and _terribly_ afraid - apparently McGonagall would be as things turned out) as it was neutral ground and they could both laugh a bit about Hufflepuff's and how Nathaniel Millard had managed to cast a love charm on his badger in Transfiguration and was now forced to take care of his 'house mascot'. They wasted the whole afternoon sitting on the landing, eating through the chocolate Potter had sent when he found out their mother disapproved of sweets.

Regulus hates Potter but he likes sweets and isn't really the type to refuse gratification on principal and besides, Sirius looked cheerful about the whole thing, especially when Regulus accidentally swalled a Firewhisky one and hiccuped his way down a flight of stairs. He choked it up afterwards of course - along with the dinner the old house elf had made and now his stomach's hurting and his mouth still tastes a bit dry and a bit acidic but ... he runs his fingers through the grass and pictures his brother in the Slytherin colours.

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**A/N:** This is a slightly experimental project which is basically the foundation work for a much larger Regulus orientated fic which I'm mapping out the plot for at the moment ('cause their just aren't enough Reg-based ficcies out there - sniffle). So I'm writing up a series of snapshots from his life in the hopes that I can form a clearer picture of what he would have been like (as there isn't a clear cut vision of him anywhere in the books, or even to an extent, in fandom TT ) - suggestions are welcomed, about what episodes I should write and/or about what you think he would have been like.

Oh and whoever can be bothered to go and find out which poem I'm ripping off for the chapter titles get somesort of prizy thingymabob.

Please, please, _please_ review!

Disclaimer: All Harry Potter references belong to J.K.Rowling. Everything else is a project of my more than slightly unhealthy obsession with poor Regulus Black.


	2. Get with Child a Mandrake Root

Get With Child a Mandrake Root

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The steam rises, twisting through cycles of snake, lion, raven, badger in the crisp winter air. He wonders whether it's enchanted and looks around to ask Sirius, but he's gone. Regulus can see his brother's dark head pressed close to that of his scruffier mirror image - _Potter_ - wearing a slightly taunting Gryffindor smile and waving his hands erratically as they all laugh in a unison that makes Regulus want to snap Potter's stupid, thick-lensed glasses in half. Stuffing his hands in the silk lined pockets of his cloak Regulus makes his way back through the stuttering first years and overenthusiastic second years to the entrance where his parents are still standing . Mrs Black stares contemptuously at the muggle clothing the new children are wearing as her husband replies distractedly to her disdainful comments, his long nose buried in his copy of the daily prophet. 

"Sirius's loaded his trunk already." There's a short silence which is awkward for the mother and son and passingly noticable for the father. They all three know Sirius won't be back to say goodbye to his parents. "I'm off too now." Regulus has to consciously stop himself from shifting ball-heel, ball-heel as his mother's hawkish gaze focuses on him. His mother nods curtly and pecks him on the cheek, the hidden wrinkles of her mouth bunching and pressing lipstick to her youngest son's skin. His father's nod is, again, distracted and Regulus steps back, out of the embrace of their silence.

"My friends are already on the train." The words rush out involuntarily, and he feels the heat rise to his cheeks at the choked out lie, and the redness remains as a bright stain until the train is halfway to Hogwarts. He can see it colouring the sharpening features of his reflection, the only other occupant in his empty carriage. Even the lady with the trolley fails to notice him.

Regulus reads on the train, and falls asleep to dreams of a man perhaps in the seventh year, black hair like Sirius's as he sleeps, cushioned on snake skin. Plants creep out of the ground. The earth shrieks and buckles as snares split open the overripe carcass of the greyish-yellow cement which creaks, saturated and swelled by the black rain which falls slowly, like autumn leaves, to the stone ground of his dreamscape. The man sleeps on, but the pale scales of the snake skin begin to colour, a deep wide green which draws Regulus in, stronger than any colour he's seen before. The ground beneath him crunches, crumbling as he shifts to lean closer and he realises that what he took to be stone is actually paper, ancient and greying and the black rain is ink, shaping words and pictures as it falls onto his bare skin.

The green glows brighter as more ink falls in and the vines which have crept up the walls of the cavernous hall Regulus seems to be in twist about each other, writing words of their own which melt into black water as the plants rot and die, combining with the ink to plummet back to the paper earth. Regulus is confused and frightened, standing half naked as the ground's screaming begins to grow louder, a distinctive, childlike cry and the man shifts on the snake skin, which has turned from brilliant green to the wet black of the ink. The darkness creeps onto the man's skin and Regulus forces himself to move. When his legs refuse to work he opens his mouth, the shout to _"Wake up!"_ forming at the bottom of his throat. But it is stoppered. A parasite noise instead surges its way through his feet, echoing in the hollow of his chest, up to the roof of his mouth and he's wailing, screaming. He looks down in desperation only to realise just why he can't move. He's rooted to the paper - the vines sprawl from him and he's feeding the ink, it's thriving off pf him and his green, greyish limbs are twisted as a mandrake's is cry wrenched between his teeth. The man's eyes snap open, and the snake rears as Regulus turns to stone.

He wakes up and throws up and tells the prefect who comes by that he's travel sick.

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**A/N:** This is more of a prophetic chapter; it ought to make more sense as the story progresses. Sorry 'bout that. 

Please review, it's ever so appreciated!

Mandatory disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Simple, see?


	3. Tell me where all Past Years are

Tell me where all past years are

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It's late, and Knockturn alley heaves under the weight of her illicit cargo, breathing in secrets and brittle laughter as feet shuffle and stride over the dank cobblestones. Bellatrix brought him here as a joke, some sort of test which she and her latest boyfriend thought up now that she's got her apparating license and her long, loosely jointed fingers are fixed like steel about his forearm as she drags him through the crowd - the people contorting like smoke when he tries to get a good look at them.

She lets go and the tide washes him away, washes him under and the potion fumes blur his sight as his hands scrabble for an anchor. They close on a wall, the nails screaming as they dig into the earthen cracks between the bricks. Regulus looks up to see, silhouetted against the orange smear of the London sky, a sign:

_Borgin & Burkes_

His other hand comes up to press against the grim face of the window, covering the rotting gold 's' as he looks in. It looks like a furniture shop at first. Chairs are lined against the wall like courtiers or prisoners, staring with fixedly into the mirrors which reflect the inside of the shop and offer a heady, spacious sense of disorientation. Keeping close to the wall and window so as not to be swept off once more he enters, the soft sound of the bell ringing over the damp tread of his boots. The worn man behind the counter tosses him a glance and a snapped, "Touch nothing." But otherwise ignored the boy.

His eyes stroke over the items which line the counters or float, suspended in the damp air. A curled hand rises almost organically from an anvil while a charred black length of what looks like _human_ _skin_ hangs taught in a frame of carved jasper, shivering under the caress of invisible winds. Regulus can make out the chairs better now too: gaping mouths and eyes stare out from the patterning on the upholstery and one rickety arm-chair spasms so violently when he approaches it that he nearly knocks over an array of jewelry as he stumbles backwards in fright.

His hand grips a cabinet to steady himself and the boy leans over to get a better look at the delicate whorls of metal inscribed about the locks. The patterning is meaningless in the half light and as Regulus touches the dark panels of wood he feels an indefinable pull at the base of his chest and his breath catches when he touches the second drawer down. He repeats the motion to find the feeling grow tighter and stronger and, casting a furtive glance over his shoulder, he tries the lock.

The smooth motion with which it slips open unsettles him, even as he slips his hand into the shadows of the drawer. A rustling, the soft give of leather and…

He's holding a book, thin, black and soft to the touch and his heart's racing, the blood pumping so hard that it pounds like footsteps beneath the white flesh. His mouth goes a little dry as he passes his hand over the spine. The rustling of the pages as he flicks them open, one blank regiment of ruled lines after the other, makes black flowers blossom in front of his eyes and there's darkness, gagging, filling his mouth and eyes, severing his limbs from his body until there's nothing left but a bright thought, hanging between the open pages.

Without eyes or eyelids or lashes he looks out. He doesn't have the cheeks or lips or teeth or tongue to scream.

The scent of flowers washes over him, an intoxicating palette of violet and lavender overpowering the scent of raw flesh as the wolf tears out another bite, blood sliding between white teeth. The jaw snaps around him, warm and dark and he's falling once more even as delight bubbles up inside him, a brilliant, disconnected sensation. Regulus Black has never known what it is to be triumphant before.

There is darkness again, but this is real night and the gentle shapes of a nursery unwind themselves from the shadows. A baby is crying to his left; wet sounds which dissolve into the natural quiet of the room. This time when the green light breaks through the door there is no sense of weightlessness, just a pain in his chest and the echo of the baby's green eyes in his head.

Half propped against the ornate chest, he feels the weight of the book under his coat. Patient as a heart.


End file.
